


A Universe of Impossibilities

by CrimsonPetrichor



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Band, Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Vigilantes, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-15 15:09:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrimsonPetrichor/pseuds/CrimsonPetrichor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Title unabashedly stolen from a quote by the Eleventh Doctor)</p>
<p>A repository of AU one-shots, featuring <s>five</s> four pivotal moments from the course of the Diaries, each recast in a different AU setting, along with anything else that strikes my fancy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Most Awkward Assassination Plot Ever

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back, with yet another collection of standalone fics. Last time I drew my inspiration from songs; this time it's from different AUs. I hope you enjoy the first one!

Lizzie Bennet is exhausted, sore, and pissed off. It’s not like that’s a particularly unique combination for her- it’s par for the course, really. But she’d been counting on a relaxing stakeout last night and instead she ended up in brutal hand-to-hand combat with a guy twice her size. She took him down, but he managed to get in a couple good hits first, and Lizzie’s pretty sure that right now her skin is more purple than anything else. All she wants to do is shower and pass out for a few hours.

She says as much to Lydia over her comm as she rides her motorcycle back to base, but her little sister cheerily reminds her that that’s not an option this morning. They have a meeting with another private espionage organization, and as the agent who’s being pimped- sorry, _loaned_ out, Lizzie has to be there.

Mary had briefed her on the organization yesterday- Pemberley Digital, the renowned digital media company, is actually a cover for Pemberley Securities, an intelligence organization that can be traced back as far as 18th-century England. The agents all seem to be connected to one particular family, except there isn’t a single blemish on the company’s or the family’s records. For all intents and purposes, the Darcys are an upstanding, established family. It doesn’t even register as weird that they’re ultra-private: the Darcys are so wealthy, you feel like you have to be in a certain tax bracket to know what they look like.

Of course, Mary is the sort of hacker who is undeterred by silly things like social norms and privacy laws. She can’t get into the system at the Darcy compound, but she hacks into one of their external security cameras and manages to get IDs not only on the members of the family, but all of their closest associates. Lizzie appreciates her cynicism. They may be coming to Longbourne Information Systems for help, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous. Word in the intelligence community is that the head of Pemberley is the stateside counterpart of James Bond: handsome, charming, and a ruthless killer. 

Usually, she’d be impressed, but right now, Lizzie couldn't care less if the man had Chris Hemsworth's body, Orlando Bloom's face, and Clint Barton’s aim. Whoever he is, he’s standing between her and her first uninterrupted sleep in four days, and she’s not happy about it.

She pulls into the base's parking lot and rides her bike straight into the elevator, waiting for the front doors to slide shut before scanning her thumb and saying a “Hi, Charlotte” to the voice recognition system. Once she punches in her security code, the back of the elevator slides open to reveal the tunnel that leads to base. Lizzie slides down the visor of her helmet as she guns the engine, pealing out of the elevator and into the winding tunnels ahead.

After a second or two, she hears her best friend’s voice coming from her earpiece. “Lizzie, you do know that you’re using the _service entrance_ , right?” Charlotte asks, and Lizzie can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“Somehow, Char, that didn’t escape my notice,” she shoots back.

“You can’t just take the elevator down like a normal person?”

“Charlotte, we are many things, but normal will never be one of those,” she pauses as she rounds a tight corner, “besides, you have to change elevators halfway through and that’s just a pain in the ass.” 

“You are such a child.”

“I know,” Lizzie says with a laugh. She screeches to a stop in front of a set of steel doors, swipes her ID card and punches in another code.

The doors slide open to reveal her best friend, sitting behind the reception desk and coolly assembling a Smith and Wesson without looking. “Yeah, you’re also late,” Charlotte says. 

Lizzie pulls off her helmet and runs her fingers through her hair, trying to fix the damage that the helmet has inevitably done. “Well, crap. Gardiner’s going to kill me, isn’t she?”

“Oh, of course not,” Charlotte says soothingly. “She’ll just ask me to do it for her.”

“Yours is truly a unique brand of comfort,” says Lizzie, rolling her eyes. “Hey, so, uh, I’m not looking to get killed by you or anyone else for being late, so can you-”

“Put the bike in the garage? Yeah, just give me the keys.”

Tossing the keys to her friend, Lizzie calls out, “Thank you!” over her shoulder as she hurries down the hallway. When she gets closer to the conference room, she catches her own name mixed into the conversation that their guests are having, and she can’t resist the temptation to hang back and eavesdrop for a moment before she makes her entrance. 

She’s surprised to hear a voice that she recognizes- it’s Caroline Lee. They’ve worked together once or twice; she’s a friend of Gardiner’s. “I’m not exactly thrilled to let a stranger into my brother’s private affairs,” Caroline is saying, “but between his life and your comfort, I’m choosing his life.” 

The man who responds, Lizzie decides, must be the famous Mr. Darcy. “Caroline, kindly do not insult me by implying that I wouldn’t do whatever I needed to in order to protect my best friend. It’s not as though my hesitation is unmerited- I still fail to see how this plan that you and my sister have concocted will be remotely successful.”

“Oh, please, you know as well as I do that this is the only way to finish Project Gibson while keeping Bing safe and not blowing Pemberley’s cover,” Caroline snaps. “I’ve worked with Elizabeth before. She’s a crack shot and she’s good undercover- plus, her brand of spying is a lot less debonair than yours. It’ll come in handy.”

“Debonair? Caroline, I’m a trained assassin.”

“So is she. It’s just that she breaks noses to get to targets instead of poisoning martinis. What, Darcy, are you scared you’ll fall for her roguish charms?” 

Darcy scoffs. “Please. Miss Bennet is decent enough, but I hardly think that I’m danger of _that_.”

Who in the hell does this guy think he is? His company came to Longbourne for help, not the other way around. Lizzie clenches her fist and resists the urge to announce her presence with a throwing knife. Instead, she strides into the room with a smile pasted onto her face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting a personal conversation,” she says. “I’m so sorry we’ve kept you waiting. I had a 300-pound distraction to take care of just before I got here.”

“Mobster?” Caroline asks, standing up to shake Lizzie’s hand. “Nice to see you again.”

Lizzie shakes her head. “Hired goon for some gun runner. And likewise.”

Darcy, who dresses like he fell out of an episode of _Mad Men_ , actually stands up when Lizzie enters. She’s already annoyed about the ‘decent enough’ comment, and it only gets worse when she notices that he’s more attractive than he looks in the grainy security camera shots, so she only acknowledges him when he clears his throat and introduces himself.

“William Darcy,” he says as he reaches out a hand to shake hers. His voice is the perfect blend of arrogance and boredom. “CEO of Pemberley Securities.”

She’d originally planned to pretend that she hadn’t heard them talking, but something about Darcy’s haughty expression just pisses her off.  She shakes his hand and introduces herself as, “Lizzie Bennet. Roguish crack shot, best described as decent enough.”

And Gardiner might take away a month’s shooting range privileges for it, but it’s totally worth it to see the smirk slide right off of Darcy’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we started off with a spy AU partially because I wanted to write our favorite ladies casually being total badasses, but also partially because I just couldn't get the image of Charlotte nonchalantly disassembling and reassembling a pistol out of my head and it needed to be a thing that happened.
> 
> However, worry not, lovers of AU fics- there are some classic AU settings headed your way (coffeeshop, anyone?) as well as some that may slightly hinge on parody because I just love the genre to bits and had to give it a try.
> 
> I hope you all have as much fun with these as I did, and if you feel so inclined, leave me a comment to let me know what you thought of the first one.


	2. “Friends Forever (feat. Ricky Collins)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I am a horrible person. I definitely intended to put this up less than three months after the first chapter went up, but life happened and suddenly it was September. I promise I'll be better about the next installment!
> 
> Anyway, here's your Band!AU. Sort of. (It's also partially an AU where Lizzie doesn't have to post EVERYTHING on the internet for the sake of plot progression.) I hope you enjoy it!

The story breaks the morning after the fight before, in classic Hunsford Media style. They put out a press release informing everyone who’d care to know that they’re pleased to announce the signing of the first artist on their label, YouTube sensation Charlotte Lu. They make her sound more like a commodity than a person, acknowledging “Miss Lu’s highly marketable skills” and the “inimitable power of Miss Lu’s previously established fanbase” (“They’re called beautiful muffins,” Lizzie snaps at the computer screen, referencing the name that she and Charlotte had accidentally given their fans a year ago.)

Altogether, it’s enough to make Lizzie (more) nauseous. 

As she dwells on it everything, rereading Collins’ stupid press release and staring at the phone in her hands, Lizzie’s hurt starts to morph into something a little bit more like spite. She feels angry and betrayed and heartbroken and it’s almost enough to make her post the entire video to YouTube. 

She wants everyone to know just how hard she fought, how she’d tried so hard to convince Charlotte to stay instead of selling herself to Ricky Collins’ gimmicky, soulless record label. Why shouldn’t she, after all? Hunsford wasted no time in putting out their version of the story. Shouldn’t she get a chance to tell her side, before the websites start speculating and make things even worse?

But ‘almost’ is the operative word here, because try as she might, Lizzie can’t bring herself to do that to Charlotte. Instead, the footage just plays on a loop on Lizzie’s computer screen. She stares at it unseeingly for what feels like forever, memorizing every second but still cringing every time she watches the door of her bedroom slam shut. 

“Well, guess what, Lizzie?” asks Charlotte-on-her-screen, looking furious. “All this time, I haven’t been working on _my_ music. I’ve been working on _yours_.”

Lizzie watches the tiny version of herself freeze like she’s just been slapped, staring in disbelief at Charlotte-on-her-screen. 

In the moment, Lizzie hadn’t actually caught the last words that Charlotte had said, but now she has them memorized. “I can recommend some people if you need help with editing and stuff,” Charlotte says quietly, pausing in the doorway before she leaves over and over and over again.

In retrospect, it’s probably those words that sting the most, because there it is: Charlotte in a nutshell. Even when she and Lizzie are fighting over something real and important and emotional, she’s the pragmatist, the one who keeps Lizzie tethered to the ground. Charlotte _is_ walking out the door and Lizzie _will_ have to carry on without her, and even when she’s angry, Charlotte’s still there to somehow help Lizzie find her footing.

After all that, how can Lizzie just throw Charlotte under the bus and make her look like a sellout by posting the video? Lizzie’s side of the story isn’t the only one, and Charlotte deserves the chance to tell hers, too. Lizzie might not know what they are anymore- they haven’t had a real fight in years, and none of _those_ ended in one of them moving to another city- but for all the years that Charlotte has been her best friend, Lizzie owes her that much.

As Lizzie drops her head into her hands, she catches sight of her phone, displaying the text that she’s written and rewritten twelve times, but hasn’t had the heart to send.

There’s a million ways that she could do this, you see. She could insist that she was right and Charlotte was wrong or she could lie and say that she believes Charlotte was right or she could forward Charlotte every possible job opportunity that doesn’t involve selling one’s soul to Hunsford Media, but though she’s rehearsed every single one of those, she knows that none of them are going to bring her best friend back. And really, asks a little voice in the back of Lizzie’s mind, does she deserve to get her best friend back? Hasn’t she spent an awful lot of time focused on how everything affects her without really considering that Charlotte might have it just as bad- or even worse?

It’s a dangerous rabbit hole to go down, but in spite of that, Lizzie’s about to do her best Alice in Wonderland when an alarm goes off somewhere and makes her snap out of it. 

She looks around confusedly for a minute, then realizes that it’s her phone that’s ringing- an alarm that Charlotte had programmed into it when they got serious about this YouTube thing. The text in the blue box reads, “Finished filming tomorrow’s video?”

In twenty minutes, there’ll be another alarm asking if Charlotte has all the footage.

Tomorrow, at 8:30 AM, a third one will go off, reminding her that she needs to upload the video to their channel.

Lizzie suddenly feels sick again and all the chamomile in the world can’t help her now. How is she supposed to do this? Is she even capable of doing this? She’d performed all the music alone in the beginning, with Charlotte only making periodic appearances, but the majority of their subscribers had appeared when the channel became Lizzie _and_ Charlotte’s channel. Songwriting, composing, performing- everything had been a joint effort. If it seems like Lizzie is the more talented one, it’s only because Charlotte preferred to stay in the background, keeping things on track the way she always did.

It’s all frustrating and overwhelming and Lizzie has no idea what she’s even going to say to the viewers. (That’s Charlotte’s area of expertise, too- the whole diplomacy thing. Lizzie is prone to oversharing and occasionally ranting, and Charlotte’s marketing savvy is probably one of the main reasons that they’ll never get sued for libel.)

All she knows is that she has to say something, and she needs to think of it fast unless she wants the fans to freak out because of the lack of a video. They’ve already started tweeting her like crazy, asking if the Hunsford Media thing is a joke, trying to confirm that the Lizzie and Charlotte show will go on. They love Charlotte, too, and they at least deserve some kind of explanation.

Lizzie grabs a pen and paper, trying to pull together some sort of script so that she won’t start ranting (or worse, crying) in the middle of the video. Her editing skills are definitely not good enough to work around something like that.

Thirty minutes and ten crumpled-up sheets of paper later, she’s finally got something passable. Lizzie stands in front of her mirror, trying to talk her way through it so that it at least sounds like she means everything she’s saying. (To be honest, she knows that it doesn’t. At least she tried, right?)

The next day at 9 AM sharp, the video goes up. Lizzie’s in the center of the shot, sitting perfectly straight on her stool as she does her opening. “Hi, everyone,” she says, a little over-cheerily. She winces, seeming to realize how fake she sounds, and slouches a little in the chair. “I think it’s best to just get on with it, right?” she asks tiredly. “My name is Lizzie Bennet, and there’s something that I need to talk to you guys about.” And then, of course, the intro plays, with its cheery theme song and painstakingly-designed title card.

A few hundred miles away and with a sinking heart, Charlotte Lu watches the video intently on her phone, waiting for the moment when Lizzie calls her a sellout and lambasts her for the choice that she made- tells the fans that if they really love music, then they won’t go near the EP that Charlotte’s recording.

It never comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To close, I just wanted to thank you all for all the love you showed for Spy!Diaries. I'm so glad you liked the concept as much as I did. As for a full-length fic, there's one currently in development, encouraged by all your wonderful feedback. I just want to make sure that it's really good, so I'm taking my time to plot everything out.
> 
> Anyway, let me know what you thought of this one, and thanks for reading as always!


	3. The Last Man on Earth I Could Ever Be Drift Compatible With

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Episode 60 - The Pacific Rim AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will come a day when I don't post new chapters to this in three month intervals, but it is not this day. I won't bog this down with a long opening note, but I hope you enjoy this one! I'm really quite excited for you all to read it.
> 
> (Just a note to anyone who's curious: in the Pacific Rim universe, this takes place in 2017. The LA Shatterdome has just opened and it's the glory days of the Jaeger Program.)

“All I can say is that if I never see that slimy, unfeeling, sociopathic robot again, it’ll be too soon.”

Lizzie stares down her video camera, anger radiating off of her in waves. If looks could kill, the (technically black market) video camera that she worked so hard to get her hands on would be on the floor right now, a puddle of melted plastic and fried circuitry.

She’s been ranting about him for what feels like forever, doesn’t know how she’ll ever stop ranting about how much she hates William Darcy now that she knows how completely justified all of her anger was. To be arrogant is one thing, to be a jerk is one thing, but to actively destroy the happiness of other people? How could anyone do that?

They live in a world where monsters pop out of the sea and try to kill civilians on a regular basis. Isn’t there enough heartbreak around them right now without Darcy inflicting it on other people?

She’s glad, for once, that she’s been temporarily reassigned to the LA Shatterdome. It may be hundreds of miles from the home she made in Anchorage, but at least she’s mostly anonymous here. It doesn’t matter if she misses meals or spends all of her free time holed up in her quarters. It should be a lonely existence, but since Fitz broke the news to her, Lizzie has been craving solitude. Here, she’s allowed to mope and glower as she pleases and no one says anything as long as she shows up to training on time.

She shakes herself out of her reverie, remembering that her camera’s still on, and is just about to say something else when there’s a knock at her door. Shooting a panicked look at the camera sitting on her table, she hurriedly shuts it and crosses over to the door, peering out of the peephole to see Darcy himself standing outside.

“Speak of the devil,” she mumbles, and a voice in her head immediately shoots back, ‘I was.’

Lizzie pauses for a moment before reaching for the latch, implementing every last bit of training from the Jaeger Academy to tamp down her urge to punch the man in the face. She finally swings the door open and coldly asks, “Can I help you?”

He looks up at her, and for an absurd second she wonders why he’s at her door when everyone else seems to be watching his aunt give a press conference about the new Shatterdome and how well it’s functioning. Then, of course, she regains her senses and she hopes the hatred in her gaze is enough to compensate for her momentary loss of anger.

Darcy is many things, but he’s not too thick to miss the irritation in Lizzie’s- well, everything, really. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Actually, I-” Lizzie begins, but Darcy seems to change his mind about whether he actually cares, because he cuts her off.

“The Fightmaster requested that I pass on orders to you. There is a physical compatibility test scheduled for you at fifteen-hundred hours.”

Before the words can even process, Darcy has hurried away, leaving Lizzie to stare at the empty hallway, completely bewildered.

She’s been counting on having the afternoon to mull over what she should do with the new information about how Bing and Jane’s relationship ended, but since it would appear that that’s not an option anymore, she suits up instead. As she french braids her hair- not because she’s trying to look particularly attractive for this test, but because a french braid is less likely to come loose and whip her in the face- and twists it into a bun, Lizzie contemplates why she’s even being summoned to the Kwoon. Physical compatibility tests are for Rangers who need co-pilots, and while Lizzie’s definitely one of the best in the Anchorage batch, she’s not a pilot and she’s definitely not based out of this Shatterdome. There's no reason for them to be testing her here.

Orders are orders, though, so five minutes to three in the afternoon finds her in the Combat Room, hanbō in hand as she stands barefoot at the edge of the mat. As she waits for her opponent to make his or her appearance, Lizzie decides that as unnecessary as it feels, this test is probably just what she needs right now. The focused precision of the stances, the awareness required to not only anticipate but avoid your opponent's strikes- at least for the short time that she's on the mat, she won't be able to stew over how furious she is.

As her examiners huddle in a corner, clipboards in hand, Lizzie realizes why the Kwoon feels so strange today: it's empty. Entertainment being as rare as it is in the Shatterdome, physical compatibility tests always draw crowds. The fights may be over quickly, but they're beautiful to watch, and an eager crowd can bring Super Bowl levels of excitement to the most predictable tests. Today, though, there's not a soul in sight who doesn't have an express reason for being there- two low level officers from LOCCENT, the fightmaster, and three other rangers who look just as confused as she does. Who, Lizzie wonders, could possibly have enough clout to get themselves a private compatibility test?

As if the universe were listening and decided at that moment to answer her question, William Darcy appears on the other side of the mat, dressed in sparring gear and carrying a staff identical to hers.

All her musings on clarity and peace of mind fly out the window and Lizzie's irritation flares up so strongly that she can't stop herself from hissing, "Are you _kidding_ me?"

One of the other rangers glances in her direction for a moment, but if anyone else hears her, they don’t say anything.

As Darcy and his first opponent step onto the mat, Lizzie shuts her eyes for a second, reminding herself of all the advice that her fightmaster at the Academy gave her in training. For at least a few seconds, she can tune out the smack of hanbō against hanbō, hearing Tamsin Gardiner’s voice in her head.

 _“A physical compatibility test,”_ Lizzie remembers her saying, _“is a dialogue, not a fight. This isn’t a question of how soon you can take your opponent down. This is about how you anticipate your opponent’s moves and how they anticipate yours. Drift compatibility isn’t about liking or disliking someone. It’s about understanding them.”_

If understanding is the key here, then Lizzie’s got this perfectly under control. She’s had William Darcy figured out from the first time that she met him. He’s arrogant, rigid, and inexcusably rude, and while that doesn’t sound very relevant to a physical compatibility test, it tells her everything she needs to know. He’s rigid, which means that he’ll stay on-book. She’s assuming that if he looks like he’s starting a specific stance, that’s probably the exact one he’ll land in. He’s also incredibly pompous, and probably believes that no one’s as good as he is in the ring. That means he won’t be feinting or attempting to disguise his strikes- he probably won’t see the need to.

Lizzie watches him take down the first three rangers and grows even more certain that her assessment of him is spot-on. He takes out his opponents before they even really have a chance, striking them down with such efficiency that he almost looks bored. She has to force herself not to roll her eyes. If Darcy knows he’s so much better than any of the people in the Shatterdome, then why did he set up this test? Does his ego really need to be fed?

But then it’s her turn, and as she steps onto the mat, Lizzie does her best to clear her mind of any distaste that she has for William Darcy. He might be using this as a tool to make himself look even better to everyone around him, but that doesn’t mean that she’s going to cruise through this. She doubts she’s better than any of the rangers who went before her, but if nothing else, she wants to do Gardiner and the Anchorage Shatterdome proud.

They face each other, staffs in hand, and wait for the examiner to tell them to begin. As soon as she does, Lizzie starts to take her favorite stance, keeping an eye on Darcy as he executes a textbook feint, pretending to go for her ribs. It should be undetectable, but Lizzie is nothing if not a good student, and she knows that if he was really committed to the strike, he’d have to shift a lot more force to the left side of his body. She calls his bluff, swinging her staff around to the right, but instead of trying to block a hit that will never come, she catches him behind the knee and knocks him onto his back, bringing her hanbō to a stop just before it hits his face.

Lizzie can’t help but smirk a little as Darcy gets back up and the examiner calls out, “One-zero.”

The idea of knocking Darcy off his pedestal is enough to have Lizzie going in for an attack as soon as Darcy’s on his feet again, but this time he’s as quick as she is, blocking two of her strikes and dodging a third as she realizes just a second too late that she never thought to block a possible hit from him. The score evens out and Lizzie pushes her anger aside so that she can focus instead on Darcy’s footwork, the way his hands shift as he changes positions, his patterns of attack- if she can get inside his head, she can anticipate what’s coming next, and if she can do that, she can beat him.

Her second point is the product of a well-executed feint. His is awarded when he knocks her off her feet, but she rolls out of it fast enough to have him on the mat before the new score can even be called out. There is a shift, though, in that split second between points. The combat becomes more fluid. Even as Darcy fights to regain the upper hand and they match each other blow-for-blow, it doesn’t look like a back and forth. It looks like they’re moving on pure instinct.

When Darcy gets his third point, there’s barely a pause in the action. Lizzie flips her staff around, swinging at his solar plexus, and almost gets the winning point when he blocks her at the last minute. They’re both fighting for that final point, each one blocking the other’s jabs and swings with eerie precision.

Lizzie realizes as she blocks an admittedly well-choreographed strike that her body is almost moving on autopilot now. She just seems to know exactly where Darcy’s next strike will land and how she can position herself to take him out when it does. She attributes it to good training, assuming that it has to come naturally after all the practice she’s had, and figures that her best bet is to pay attention to her instincts and fight accordingly.

That’s how Darcy ends up flat on the floor for the third time, staring at Lizzie in total shock as she gains her fourth point.

The polite claps from the other rangers and examiners bring her back to reality, and Lizzie tries to shake off whatever that strange trance was, rushing off to change as soon as she’s been dismissed. She doesn’t quite understand what just happened, but she figures that all she needs is to clear her head and spend some time alone.

She’s just flopped onto the bed in her quarters when there’s a knock at her door. Lizzie groans, hoisting herself off the bed and not even bothering to check who it is as she pulls the door open. It’s the choice to not look through the peephole that damns her in the end, because standing in her doorway once more is William Darcy. He looks agitated, but Lizzie refuses to spare a single moment worrying about what’s on his mind when she’d probably rather chat with a kaiju than him.

“I need to speak with you,” he says. “May I come in?”

Lizzie’s not sure what possesses her to do it, but she ushers him inside, closing the door behind him. “Just so you know, this is really not a good time.”

“Please just let me speak,” Darcy says, like he didn’t even hear her.

As Lizzie stares incredulously at him, he seems to realize that he’s been a bit rude, because he tries to explain himself.

“I’m sorry, but the last few months have been crazy. I’ve been hiding something from you that I shouldn’t have and that I can’t anymore. I need to admit something to you.”

He’s been strangely intense so far, and Lizzie is starting to wonder if she should be concerned when he says, “Please sit.”

She crosses her arms, doing her best to stare him down even though he’s quite a bit taller than her.

“I’m fine with standing, thank you.”

Darcy nods distractedly, looking first at the floor, then the door, then finally back at Lizzie. “I didn’t come back to LA to help my aunt supervise the opening of the Shatterdome. I came here to- to see you,” he says, his ever-confident tone faltering a little at the end.

Lizzie isn’t sure if she heard him wrong or whether there’s some vital piece of information that she missed out on, but he seems to be looking for a response, so she slowly says, “Okay.”

That’s enough for Darcy. “Two parts of me have been at war,” he begins, and before Lizzie knows it, he’s explaining all the reasons why she’s a completely unsuitable match for him and topping it off by confessing that he’s in love with her.

The shock that she feels is quickly followed by anger. What kind of jackass confesses his love to a girl by listing everything that’s wrong with her?

But the shocked expression on her face seems to do all the talking for her in Darcy’s eyes, because he digs himself an even deeper grave by saying, “I can’t believe it either- that my heart could so completely overwhelm my judgment.”

Lizzie’s beginning to understand that if this goes any further, it’s probably going to end with Darcy simultaneously calling her insufferable and proposing to her, so she doesn’t bother with niceties as she shuts him down. “Well, I hope your judgment can be some solace in your rejection, because those feelings are definitely not mutual.”

It gets even worse from there. Darcy can’t seem to believe that Lizzie would ever reject him, so she spells it out for him just so he knows that next time, he really shouldn’t orchestrate the breaking of a girl’s heart and then attempt to hook up with her sister. Darcy presents his own twisted logic for what he did, and every second that they spend in conversation just makes Lizzie angrier and angrier.

At the end of it all, he tries to make himself out to be the victim, saying, “So this is what you think of me? Thank you for explaining it all so eloquently.”

And then Lizzie snaps and finally says what’s been running through her head since this conversation started: “And thank you, for proving time and again that your arrogance, pride, and selfishness make you the last man on earth I could ever fall in love with.”

Darcy acknowledges that this is Lizzie’s not-exactly-subtle invitation to leave her room, but he stops in the doorway for just a moment longer to say, “I’m sorry to have caused you so much pain. I should have acted differently. I was unaware of your feelings towards me.”

But if there is any sincerity in his words, Lizzie is too tired and angry to mine for it. She lets him leave and slumps down on her bed again, wondering when sea monsters from another world became the least shocking thing in her life.

Darcy leaves the Shatterdome soon afterwards, and Lizzie returns to Anchorage not too long after that. She does end up reading the letter that he leaves with her, but what they both miss is the report from the compatibility test, which comes in just hours after Lizzie leaves town.

Tucked into some filing cabinet in the LOCCENT by Charlotte Lu (just in case it becomes relevant one day), the forgotten paper reads, _‘DARCY, William and BENNET, Elizabeth: DRIFT COMPATIBLE.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I absolutely fell in love with Pacific Rim this summer, and I seriously debated whether or not it should be one of the AUs included in this fic. This concept was actually up against a coffee shop AU of Snickerdoodles for a very long time, but then a few weeks ago there was a burst of Pacific Rim/Pride and Prejudice crossover chatter on Tumblr and I just knew that I had to get this out there.
> 
> There was much research (if you were curious, yes Gardiner was absolutely named after Tamsin Sevier) and a little bit of playing with the movie's canon, but I hope this gave everyone at least a little bit of a Pacific Rim fix. I also apologize for playing with the rules of physics in case that happened at any point in the chapter. I'm not at all athletic and have never choreographed anything before, so this fight scene was kind of intimidating to do and I hope it worked out.
> 
> As always, please leave me a note and let me know what you thought if you feel so inclined. Thanks for reading!


	4. The Little Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia's "downfall", the Noir way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time I said I'd be posting more consistently and it turned out to be a blatant lie? Me, too. Real life has gotten in the way of this collection, and I'm probably the only one who cares, but I'm still terribly sorry. 
> 
> As it is, I've been super excited for this particular chapter since I first came up with this story idea, and I can't wait to hear what you think. This chapter title comes from the Raymond Chandler book of the same name. It seemed too fitting to pass up.
> 
> (One final request: barring my rejection of many of the social dynamics of the time period, if anyone seems OOC, I ask you to just do me the favor of bearing with me until the end of the chapter. If you still feel that way once the story is over, you're welcome to yell at me in the comments.)

It was only March, but the afternoon was as steamy as they came. It was hot, August-hot, and the pouring rain didn’t help one bit. It just made the wireless crackle and the air feel like molasses, all sticky and impossible to breathe.

The year was 1947. The city wasn’t important, just the same as every town on this earth: muggy and too small and full of people searching for things. Most of the time, they never found them.

The dame with the red hair could have been one of those people. She was small, hunched under a black umbrella and a borrowed raincoat. She looked just like all the others – marching mindlessly with their eyes down, doomed to never find what they were looking for – but she moved differently. She may have been unimportant, unnoticed by everyone else, but she knew where she was going. Whether the same could be said for the other thousand souls on that block, well, that was another question.

* * *

 

The offices at Darcy & Fitzwilliam were dark without the afternoon sun spilling through the windows. The redhead’s shoes, so quiet on the city streets, clacked against the marble when she entered. The sudden noise echoed up into the vaulted ceiling and hung there for a minute. The woman started at the sound, glancing around in alarm before realizing it had come from her. She took a few more steps into the building, slowly, like she wouldn’t be noticed that way, and only then seemed to realize that her umbrella was still open.

She flushed, bringing it down and closing it so quickly that water sprayed all over the marble floor of the building. The woman at reception finally noticed her, bustling over and stopping just short of where the umbrella had painted the afternoon’s rain on the pristine floors.

“We don’t have any positions available,” she said briskly. “So you can go right back to your agency and tell them that I don’t want another one of their typists interrupting my day.”

The redhead’s eyes widened. She shook her head. “No, no, ma’am. I’m not here for a job.”

“Then what are you here for?” the woman snapped. She looked the younger woman up and down, softening when she saw the shaking hands and the sad eyes. “Is there someone you need to see?”

“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, exactly. I need to see Mr. Darcy as soon as possible.”

The receptionist narrowed her eyes again. “Mr. Darcy? Mr. Darcy is a very busy, very important man. He can’t just be meeting with young things off the street for no reason.”

“You don’t understand,” said the woman. “I know him. We met through Mrs. de Bourgh. I know him and Colonel Fitzwilliam. Please, just call up and see if he’s available. I only need five minutes.”

It was hopeless until the door swung open a second time, letting in a gust of hot air and an impeccably dressed woman. There was a hat perched on her dark curls and a stole around her neck. Her shiny, patent leather heels clicked on the ground and somehow the sound was more resonant than the one that the other woman’s shoes had made. It was like the dark haired woman knew that she belonged here, and nothing said it more than the imperious gaze that she cast around the room as soon as she entered.

The receptionist, who was now looking even more suspiciously at the intruder, caught the newcomer’s eye and beckoned her over. “Miss Lee,” said the older woman. “Could you please explain to this _girl_ that Mr. Darcy has no time to for an unscheduled meeting today because he is meeting with you.”

Caroline Lee glanced at the figure in the raincoat and her eyes lit up in recognition. The redheaded woman turned her pleading gaze on Caroline, who looked inscrutably back for a moment. Then she suddenly said, “Mrs. Reynolds, didn’t I call to cancel that little meeting? Silly me.” Mrs. Reynolds stared at Caroline in shock, but Miss Lee just waved a hand impatiently. “Why don’t you go on and ring up the office to let them know? I’m sure this one can find her way to the elevators on her own.”

Miss Lee swept out the door the way that she came in, and for a second the dame had to wonder if she had dreamed the other woman’s appearance. But it couldn’t have been a dream, because now the receptionist – Mrs. Reynolds – was turning back to the front desk with a look on her face like she was announcing the arrival of the Germans instead of a young lady.

“Miss?” she asked. “What name should I give them upstairs?”

“Oh,” the young woman said, “Miss Bennet, please. Tell him— tell them it’s Elizabeth Bennet.”

* * *

 

Mrs. Reynolds had called up to tell Mr. Darcy’s assistant about a ‘drenched little thing’ who was on her way up to meet the CEO. If Charlie Musgrove was confused by her call, things became perfectly clear when the elevator’s bell rang across the room.

Everyone in the room pretended not to look on as the wrought-iron grates moved aside to reveal a woman with eyes like the ocean and hair like a Bora Bora sunset. Her suit was simple and well-fitting, blue with a matching cap that was pinned just so. She carried a coat and umbrella over one arm, a handbag in the other. She wasn’t beautiful, not exactly, but her sweet smile and sad eyes made every man in the room ready to help her out of the rickety lift and any other jam she might be in.

She made it out of the elevator just fine, but looked around for guidance after that, not sure where to go or who to ask about it. At least four others began to get out of their chairs, but Henry Tilney was the closest to the elevator and the first to make it to the woman’s side.

“Let me just take those from you, ma’am,” he said politely, letting her hand him the umbrella and coat, though later he would realize that he had no idea what to do with either one.

“Right this way, Miss Bennet,” Musgrove said, making his way over to the pair. “Mr. Darcy’s expecting you.”

* * *

 

Mr. William Darcy was a young but grave sort of man. It could never be said that his manners were lacking or that he was a harsh employer, but he was intensely private. While other young men of his class had come out of the war desperate to live the lives with which they had escaped, Mr. Darcy had come home as reserved as ever.

The news of Miss Bennet’s visit, then, was so shocking that it traveled down eighteen stories within fifteen minutes. (The secretaries at Darcy & Fitzwilliam may have been excellent workers, but discreet they were not.) It didn’t matter that no one quite knew who Miss Bennet was – she wasn’t well dressed enough to be a friend of Miss Darcy’s, nor had she ever appeared anywhere in a professional capacity – the fact that Mr. Darcy was receiving her, a personal visitor, during business hours was enough to confirm that she was very important indeed.

As if this weren’t enough, Charlie Musgrove himself had led the young Miss Bennet into his employer’s office and watched as the man’s usually-serious expression melted into warm concern the moment she appeared. Musgrove exited the room and left the pair to speak, so baffled by the change that he either didn’t notice or didn’t care that one of the younger typists had ducked into the cloakroom, trying to listen in on the conversation.

What the typist heard was confusing, names and places that she knew nothing about. But she, like every young woman in the city, could smell a scandal from a mile away, and that was exactly what was unfolding here.

“I- I came here to tell you that my aunt and I won’t be coming to your dinner party this evening. Please apologize to your sister for me. She was so kind to invite us, but-” Miss Bennet’s voice shook and she took a deep breath. “But certain circumstances have meant that we have to return to Longbourne immediately. We’ll be taking the eight o’clock train. I really- I really shouldn’t have come here, but after all the kindness that you- that Miss Darcy has shown us, it didn’t feel right to leave a note.”

When Darcy spoke, it was in such a soft voice that the eavesdropper would never have recognized it if she hadn’t known that it belonged to him. “Miss Bennet, is something the matter? Is it your family? Are your parents unwell?”

“No, I shouldn’t burden you, Mr. Darcy. I only came here to apologize, and I’ve already interrupted your work to do it. I really should go.”

“Miss Bennet,” came Darcy’s voice as a chair scraped the floor and Miss Bennet’s heels clicked on the floor. “Lizzie, please tell me what’s wrong.”

The room suddenly went silent, like Miss Bennet had frozen in place. Then, there were footsteps and a soft sob. “It’s Lydia,” she said. “My sister Lydia, she- she ran away with a man and- and oh, I don’t know what we’re going to do now.”

“But they can’t have gotten far,” said Darcy. “I’m sure it would be no trouble to track them down and make sure this ends properly.”

There was another sob. “But it’s not just any man. Lydia ran away with _George Wickham_.”

The typist was confused, but Darcy seemed to know exactly who his guest was referring to. Suddenly, he was the brisk, businesslike Darcy again. “How long has it been since they disappeared?”

Miss Bennet sniffed. “A day, maybe more. She was staying with a friend, you see, and she left at night. No one noticed until the afternoon. They thought she was sleeping and once they found her note it was too late.”

“And Wickham, he…knew your sister well?”

A shuddering sigh, and then Miss Bennet whispered, “Yes.”

“I see,” said Darcy gravely.

But then the door of the cloakroom began to open and the typist nearly fell from her perch, diving for her coat and pretending to look through its pockets for something.

By the time that she returned to her desk, Miss Bennet was exiting Darcy’s office, those sad eyes of hers red-rimmed and teary. The typist chanced a glance towards Mr. Darcy as his door swung shut. He was watching Miss Bennet walk towards the elevator, watching her the way that a marooned man would watch a passing ship.

When Darcy left an hour later, disappearing onto the rainy, gray streets on some urgent and private business, no one was surprised.

* * *

 

It was dark now, the heat finally breaking with one last thunderstorm. Rain and wind whipped the streets, and anyone unfortunate enough to be out in the weather kept their eyes down, eager to get indoors and out of the cold.

Once again, the red-haired woman was different than everyone in all her ordinary splendor.

Her big, black umbrella clutched in one hand, she stood on the bridge, looking out at the choppy water below her. Once she was certain that no one was watching, she extracted from her purse a small handkerchief-wrapped bundle and dropped it into the water.

It fell far more quickly than any bundle of cotton should have, disappearing resolutely into the water.

The handkerchief, no one would miss. They were a dime a dozen.

The revolver that it had so snugly covered? That, no one would ever know about.

Who was left to tell, after all? There was Lydia, already on her way home. There was Lizzie, in no rush to tell anyone anything as she hailed a cab for the train station.

And then, of course, there was Wickham.

But for once in his life, Wickham could be trusted to keep Lizzie’s confidence. Why?

Well, truth be known…no one could hold onto a secret quite like a dead man could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The truth is, I was more than a little writer's blocked for this story and after much deliberation, decided to truncate it to just four moments. This chapter had been planned since the beginning of the story, so I figured I could at least hammer that out and be done with it.
> 
> Then, of course, the bonus episode went up and I had a thousand new AU ideas -- hence the new summary. Hopefully, I'll be better this time around.
> 
> Lastly, thank you for the kind words on the last chapter! I was a little uncertain about it but I'm glad you enjoyed it. As always, if you feel so inclined, let me know in the comments what you thought of this one.


	5. The Mask and Wig Enthusiasts Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The vigilante AU that every fandom needs, but maybe not the one it deserves right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? ~~A ranger caught off his guard?~~ An update less than three months after the chapter was posted? Oh, shock and disbelief!
> 
> So I really like comic books and I was super in love with the second season of Arrow and I started to wonder what it would be like if you were a vlogger by day and a vigilante by night. Then, of course, I had to decide which of the vloggers from this universe would be a vigilante and I'm actually pretty happy with my choice.
> 
> Two quick notes - first off, the italicized bits are what I would imagine to be the narration that appears in little boxes in comic books and in angsty voiceovers in TV shows. I really struggled with deciding whether this should be in first person or third person and this was my compromise. 
> 
> Secondly, you do have to envision a small change of setting for this AU to make any sense at all. Here, in my head, the Bennets live in the suburbs of a small city that is nice in certain parts but has given over to crime and corruption in others. There are ports and businesses that still make it a viable real estate investment, but honestly a dedicated volunteer would probably see a lot more opportunity in the city than say, a wealthy future doctor.

_The thing about criminals is that they never learn from their mistakes. You beat one down when he's robbing a store one week and you think he's learned his lesson. Then you see him dragging someone into a back alley and you have to take the chump to school again._

_It's kind of a pain in the ass._

* * *

 The woman in the hood catches sight of the loser from last week and springs into action immediately, swinging silently off the roof of the building and down the side of a fire escape. She drops into the nearest alley to see that he has a knife to a woman's face.

“You just had to snitch on me, didn’t you? Couldn’t keep your mouth shut. You’re pathetic,” he shouts, and then calls his victim something that makes the woman in the shadows see red. “I generously keep my boys away from your block and this is how you repay me? You ungrateful little-”

She clicks on the voice modulator and growls, "You know, you should think about getting some new material."

The man whirls around just in time to see her bō staff click together. She's swinging at him before he has a chance to respond, knocking his knife out of his hand before catching him behind the knees and bringing him to the floor. He starts to reach inside his jacket but she catches the movement and strikes one more time, quick and clean on the back of the head. He slumps to the ground.

She reaches for his gun with her gloved fingers and pulls out the clip, kicking it away. The woman hesitantly approaches her.

"Is- is he dead?" she asks.

"Just unconscious," says the hooded woman. "I'm gonna tie him up. The police are on their way. They'll get you home safe."

By the time the police car approaches, the man’s would-be victim is waiting out on the sidewalk. When the cops ask her who tied up the man in the alley, she lies through her teeth.

“I- I was out cold. I didn’t see anything. When I came to, he was lying there like that.”

Two rooftops away, the vigilante collapses her staff and heads north.

* * *

_The thing about criminals is that once you start turning a blind eye to them, they'll take over your city faster than you can say 'world’s stupidest police department.' The thing about being blind to criminals is that you can't tell when they go from kicking you a little extra cash to trying to kill you._

_That's really what they're doing here. They're bleeding the city dry from the inside. I don’t know when I decided to become the last line of defense, but I know that’s what I am now._

* * *

She grew up in this town: played with her sisters in the park, hung out at the old diner after school. They got their pet cat from the animal shelter on State Street and, when the city started to get a little worse, they were made to take self defense classes at a dojo near the train station.

But she doesn’t have time for nostalgia, not on nights like tonight. A voice crackles through her earpiece. "Hey, as far as I can tell it’s not on the police scanners yet, but there's a robbery in progress on the intersection of 13th and Mansfield."

She shakes her head to clear it, readjusting her mask and tucking a lock of brown hair back under the hood. "I'm on my way."

The robbery is pretty standard -- three men, all so certain that the police won't come that they forget to be afraid of what else might find them. She watches one get into the driver's seat of the getaway car and hits him with a tranq dart. The next ducks into a corner to slyly slip some of the take into his jacket. She hits him from behind and catches the dead weight with a grunt, setting him quietly on the ground.

She’s still crouched on the ground when she hears the telltale click of a gun being cocked behind her. She freezes immediately as Robber Number Three makes his entrance.

“I had the feeling that you might show up,” he says, and she hears him take a step forward. “You’ve got a habit of interrupting my jobs, see, so the boys and I decided to take a few precautions. We were ready for you as soon as you got the drop on Roberts.”

“Really? You were ‘ready for me’? You should tell that to this guy, ’cause I don’t think he got the memo.” Maybe if she keeps him talking, he’ll get distracted enough that she can reach for the taser in her boot.

“This is all part of the plan, sweetheart,” says Number Three.

“Oh, so you _told_ him to try and sneak a few grand into his jacket?”

“Shut up!” he snaps.

“What, you don’t believe me? Use your eyes. I took him out near the dumpster and he dropped the cash right there.”

For a second, there’s silence. Then, an angry huff before Number Three mutters, “That son of a-”

The flash of her taser lights up his face when the prongs hit him in the chest. His expression freezes in a mask of anger and surprise as she rolls out of the way and he hits the ground.

“Good help is just so hard to find these days, huh?” she quips in her unmodulated voice, shooting two tranq darts at the men on the ground. She’s delivering another one to the man behind the wheel when she hears sirens in the distance.

“Mary, are you there?” she says into her comm, heading for the nearest alley.

“Yeah, why?” answers her cousin.

“The cops are on their way. I need a diversion.”

“Diversions and other explosions are your thing. Computers are mine.”

“Look, just mess with a traffic light or two and buy me some time.”

There’s an exasperated sigh from the other end. “I’m not that kind of hacker, okay? This isn’t a movie.”

“Fine!” she says, already headed up a fire escape. “But you know they’ll hit the roofs searching for me as soon as they find those guys. Just do something to slow them down.”

“Okay,” Mary says slowly, “I think I can broadcast feedback on the police radio frequency. No guarantees of diverting them, but it’ll be super unpleasant and leave them disoriented.”

“Good enough.”

When the police make it to the rooftops, she’s already back in the attic of the campus observatory, exchanging her dark wig and all-black ensemble for her naturally red hair and college-student clothes. Fifteen minutes later, she casually strolls out of the library, only acknowledged by a nod from the sleepy-eyed security guard.

* * *

_In superhero movies, people always talk about secret identities like they’re a big deal, but they’re really not. People see what they want to see. Sit yourself in front of camera and talk about your life to strangers every week? They'll never suspect a thing. No one ever guesses that you could be hiding something, not when they think they’ve got a backstage pass to your life._

_Fooling strangers is easy._

* * *

 Climbing the tree is probably the easiest thing she’s done tonight. It’s pretty much the second staircase to their house, the first port of call when she and her sisters ever have to sneak out. (And they’ve snuck out a lot, given that their mother is – well, crazy.)

She pushes open her window with ease, but she’s tired enough that she shifts her weight just a second too soon and tumbles in with a crash. She’s hobbling to bed when her door swings open to admit her sister.

“God, Lydia, keep it down,” Lizzie snaps. “Some of us have to spend our Tuesday nights writing papers instead of getting wasted.”

Lydia takes the last two steps to her bed at a drunken stumble, her only response to Lizzie’s complaint a very eloquent finger. She only relaxes when Lizzie leaves the room, muttering angrily about irresponsible people who don’t care about others.

* * *

  _Come to think of it, fooling your family’s not so hard, either._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you guess who the vigilante was before the reveal? Do you feel that I blatantly ripped off Arrow and need to come up with new ideas? Are you just super bored of reading this stuff?
> 
> If you have an opinion, let me know in the comments.
> 
> I have a lot more ideas for this particular AU, including a line from Arrow that I am just dying to steal, so let me know what you think and maybe there could be more caped crusader things coming your way! 
> 
> You know what definitely is on the horizon, whether you like it or not? The next installment of Spy Diaries! Get excited, because Mad Men!Darcy and cranky!Lizzie are just an update away.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
